


Run Off the World

by bluewind



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Mentions of child abuse/past rape, There's a brief vague rape scene, thees ees a deesaster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 02:39:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7248754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluewind/pseuds/bluewind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was thirteen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run Off the World

**Author's Note:**

> so i headcanon that ilse ran away at thirteen.

She is thirteen and she is running.

There's a bitter cold that battles her as she sprints, biting into her bare feet and arms. The frost screams at her with every step - Go back, go back, go back. She doesn't think about an hour ago when her braids were still tight; doesn't think about how they come loose when he'd grabbed them and pulled; doesn't think about how they've almost come completely undone now, whipping in the harsh wind behind her.

She thinks of going to old Moritz Stiefel's house. But she is only thirteen; his father would send her home. The sun left her long ago, the peace of night had swept over everything so before sending her home, he'd surely ask why she was there. She can't think of an excuse. Before she can think about it much, she has already sprinted past the Stiefel home, she has sprinted past the snow they once made the impression of angels in, past the trees they used to climb, the stones they tossed, and the stream they tossed them in. 

The cold air claws down her throat, burning a hole through her as everything around her blurs together. she doesn't know how long it takes for her surroundings to become unfamiliar but she feels like she is drowning, and she does not stop running. 

* * *

 

She is thirteen and she has nowhere to stay.

The last few days she's found stray corners to sleep in; even one innkeeper's wife gave her a room for the night and a couple marks. The fear of being found pushes her further, running from whatever stable or open cellar she's holed up in by the next morning.

The money she has yet to use weighing heavy in her coat pocket _(_ another something she'd stolen though she doubts the stray coat belonged to anyone _)_. She wanders into an inn, hoping that it will be filled with kind people once more. Someone who will see her dress she had worn too long, her hair falling down around her shoulders, her bare feet. Someone who would see those things and feel sympathy; give her money, or food, or perhaps a place to stay. 

She wanders in to find that she is a couple dollars short for a room.

The man behind the desk strikes a deal with her, and leads her to the back. It's a dark room, nothing but four walls painted dark. In this dark room, he kisses her. And _no one had ever - no one but him - but this couldn't be -._ Her heart begins to pound hard

Her heart begins to pound hard in her chest at the sensation, the fear; she doesn't even know his name. There's no way he can't feel the way her heart beats against her ribs like it wants to escape - the way his hands climb from her waist, grab her chest. He must feel it. She knows from the way he feels her dress that he's like _him_ \- wants what he wanted.

_"Wait,"_ she hears herself plead. _"Wait. Please wait-"_ As he kisses her and fondles her and presses her in and pulls her dress and her hope drops to her knees with her stomach, with herself. 

She doesn't know what it is. What it's called, or that others would want to take it from her. She only knows that it was what he did to her once, what she ran from, something she didn't want. But as he shushes her, reminds her that _she made a deal,_  she lets him open her legs and feels her whole body burn again.

* * *

 

She is thirteen but tomorrow she won't be.

It is the day before her fourteenth birthday, though the men around her don't know that. Some think she's eighteen; she's heard no younger than twelve. No one asks. Most of the time, they're all too drunk to care.

She believes she still looks young, but does hope she doesn't. She doesn't want to be like baby-faced Ilse Neumann whose hair is easy to pull, who makes snow angels with Moritz Stiefel, who hasn't yet realized what men want from her. That Ilse has gone. She doesn't know who she is yet, but this new person has shorn her hair so no one can pull it anymore.

When the man next to her passes her a cigarette - they called it another name but she can never remember - rolled with something foreign, she has learned to take a drag and enjoy herself. Take your fill, give it away, wait for it to come back. When the same man caresses her bare thigh, she has learned to let him in without fear. Give him what he wants, wait for it to come back. 

Tomorrow she will be fourteen. 

**Author's Note:**

> also i wrote this in the car on a roadtrip.


End file.
